


There's a place (named Hogwarts)

by Leaves_on_the_ground



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Enemies to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-07-28 19:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16247891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leaves_on_the_ground/pseuds/Leaves_on_the_ground
Summary: Beatles meet Hogwarts, 35 years before Harry discovers he is a wizard. The year is 1956, and John is in his six year, with a Potions Professor who likes him a little bit too much, a crazy Ravenclaw girl who likes him too much, and a Slytherin boy who is not that simple as John thinks he is…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy and have fun reading this fic.

“I can’t stand it anymore, Stu.” John groaned and threw his head back, complaining to his best friend, while sitting in the Gryffindor common room on the sofa, near the fireplace, looking almost unblinkingly at the flames. “Fucking McCartney, that bleeding Slytherin prat.”

“Relax, John,” Stu sighed tiredly. How many times had they been over this? “Just leave him alone.”

“L-leave him alone?!” John gave Stu a gaze full of horror as if his friend had just proposed to go on a moonlight stroll to the Forbidden Forest. “We’re gonna lose the House Cup this year because of _him_ and you’re telling me _to leave him alone?!”_

“That’s right,” Stu nodded. “If you'll excuse me, Lennon, but I'm bloody knackered of your endless blabbing over McCartney. He’s quite smart, he answers the questions and professors really like him. So, if you too want to receive some points, well, all you’ve got to do is _stop breaking the bloody rules_ , get it?

“Oi, come on! She _asked_ me to follow her to that bathroom! And who’d know they still cast _Glisseo_ on the staircase to the girls' dorm! It’s so… medieval.”

“Yeah, yeah… Is there something else you wanna rumble about?”  

“Admit it, Stu,” John tilted his head. “You hate McCartney even more than I do. And you’d be a number one smart-arse student if it wasn't for him.”

“John, what the hell is the matter with you? There dozens of brilliant students and you have no problem with them. Let’s take George, for example, from Ravenclaw. He ears lots of points and you’re okay with it. Or, Ritchie from Hufflepuff, who’s not that smart at classes but his good deeds get him points. What is your excuse for that?”

“My excuse, Stewie, is that you’re deaf and dumb. Really, son. George and Ritchie are nice, down to earth fellas and I won’t even mind if one of their houses win this year, I’m tellin’ you. But _McCartney!..._ a presumptuous twat. ‘ _Oh, look at me angelic face!’_ And any prof’s like, _‘Ten thousand points to Slytherin for McCartney’s very long an’ thick lashes!”_

“John…”

“Oh, you think he’s smart, eh? He’s always answering the easiest questions, he is. Hell, any Muggle would answer them, really! ‘ _Tell me, pupils, how do we call a thin and long something that every wizard has?’_ And McCartney goes, _‘I think it’s a magic wand, professor.’ ‘Correct, Mr. McCartney! One million points to Slytherin!’_ Is that fair, eh Stewie?”

“Life is unfair, John,” Stu rolled his eyes as he placed his palms on the hand rests in an attempt to stand up.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from you. My head’s gonna blow up if I hear one more word from you about your precious McCartney!”  

 _“He’s not mine!_ ” John shouted at Stu’s back, watching him leave. “Shuttup.”

“Whatever you say.” Stu smirked, being almost sure that Lennon had been giving him a middle finger behind his back.

***

Despite his casual attitude, John wasn’t a bad student. He was good at most of the subjects except those that seemed boring and rather tedious to him, like History of Magic or Astronomy. However, there also were subjects that were too difficult or too demanding for a great part of the pupils to pay them much attention in hope of getting better grades, but not for John. Those subjects were, for instance, Potions and Transfiguration.

He had a hassle with optional subjects, though, as he was only interested in Care of Magical Creatures and the curriculum required at least two subjects to be added to the studying plan.

Thus, the choice of the second optional subject fell onto Divination, a rash decision and a real bummer, as John had never been so mistaken in his entire life –- or rather in his six years at Hogwarts, to be precise. He wished he’d chosen Muggle Studies instead. Since he had spent most of his childhood with his aunt, who was a Muggle, the unchosen subject would have been as easy for him as falling off a log.

But no, he had ended with Divination and today, having enough of it, he skived off to wander about the Covered Bridge, on a chilly, overcast day. He’d deal with Divination later, as he hoped to come up with a more credible explanation why he hadn’t had the pleasure to show up. And it really wouldn’t be so difficult to make something up, seeing as that cuckoo professor, Prasad Varma, wasn’t quite right in his head, all starry-eyed and easily trustful.

Outside, a whiff of fresh air ruffled John’s hair, making him shiver with both cold and elation. He quickly made his way to the point of his destination and found a cosy spot where gusty winds couldn’t get him at the high bridge. John took out his sketchbook and started drawing, caricaturing his professors and sketching ludicrous situations with the equally droll creatures. His mother had taught him how to animate the pictures, bringing life into them, and for many years it'd been John’s most favourite spell.

It started to drizzle, calmly and peacefully, with a lullabying sound of distant drops drumming on the top of the Covered Bridge, making John close to shut his eyes and slowly doze off…

“Nice drawings.”

As John heard it, he’d nearly jumped off his skin at being caught by somebody he had recognized immediately, being taken by a great surprise. The praise sounded so kind and sincere that it made John’s cheeks gained in colour, turning scarlet red with embarrassment over the unexpected compliment from the person John had never thought to hear.        

“McCartney?!” John sprang to his feet and took a deep breath; he needed to calm himself down. Here he was, John’s unannounced enemy, dressed in an unbuttoned cloak with silver fastenings, with a pristine white shirt underneath, a house tie, and a green woollen scarf hanging loose on his shoulders. The green colours of Paul’s house suited him so well, matching his greenish-brown eyes, that for a brief of a moment John felt a prick of jealousy by seeing the lad so closely, estimating his looks in the middle of the daylight.  

 A crooked smile touched John’s lips. “Sagging off, are we, Macca?”

“Am not,” Paul replied simply, cocking his head. “Not sure about you, though.”

“Fuck off,” John huffed. “You gonna snitch on me now, I take it?”

“Should I? Never planned to.”

“Oh my. Aren’t you a knight in shining armour?”

Paul didn’t answer. Something sparkled in his eyes, something that John would’ve taken for a glimmer of sadness if it had been somebody else, but it was McCartney, a pseudo-goody-two-shoes dunce, and John wouldn’t fall for it. He nearly opened his mouth to utter another jibe when Paul outrun him with a question.

“Have I offended you somehow? Why are being such a wanker to me?”

“You know what, not everyone creams in their knickers at the very sight of you. I can see right through you, McCartney. You’re nothing but a two-faced, bragging little liar. That’s who you really are.”

“How can you say it, if you’ve never even talked to me?” Paul genuinely didn’t understand why he’d deserved it, this venomous hatred, but he tried his best not to lose his composure.

“I don’t have to.” John spat, crossing his arms. “It’s all written all over your face, princess. And you, you don’t even need to open your mouth, you see, to create an unfavourable impression of yourself.”

“Unfavourable impression,” Paul smirked, his teeth slightly bared. “What about your face then? Isn’t it begging for a smack, nice and hard, eh Lennon?”

“Yeah?” John narrowed his eyes into two thin slits, showing defiance and open aggression. He stepped forward, with his nose almost touching Paul’s, nostrils flared. “Try me.”

Their eyes locked in a feverish glare. A fight was almost inevitable unless one of them would retreat.

Paul backed off, stepping away from John, as he turned around and left without looking back, which is why he didn’t see John’s shaking hands and his eyes moist with tears.

***

If there were only one person who didn’t fall under McCartney’s charms, it surely was Mr. Brain Epstein, the Potions Master.

“Mr. McCartney,” Professor Epstein would say with a deep, long sigh. “I appreciate your active participation in my lessons, but can you be so generous to give your fellow students a chance to challenge themselves and their not so profound, as it seems, knowledge as yours?”

It used to be like that, staged exactly the same way, every Potions lesson, except for today.

“How can we know when a sopophorous bean is ready to be used?” asked the Potions Master, turning his head around the class. “The forest of hands, I see. Maybe you, Mr. Garry?” the asked boy lowered his head, looking at his desk. Professor Epstein heaved a sigh, then continued. “Mr. Caldwell?” the latter shook his head. “No. Maybe… Ms. Asher then?” She didn’t answer but looked briefly at her neighbour by the desk, who was Paul McCartney. He looked back at Jane but said nothing. The girl pursed her lips in vain attempt not to pout before she gave Professor Epstein a guilty smile. The quick glance hadn’t gone unnoticed by the Potions Master and he asked again, with a tart, almost mocking voice. “Mr. McCartney, our last hope. Go on, Mr. McCartney, spill us the beans.” He added with a quiet chuckle.

“Mm? Oh, I’m sorry, Professor. Can you please repeat the question?” he said, sounding drowsy and rather absent-minded as if he wasn’t really there. 

The question was repeated again, though in a very slow, torturing tempo. “How- do- you- tell when- _a sopophorous bean-_ is ready- to be used?”

“Erm… by the size of it and…” Paul started, mild and low-spirited, “the firmness of the seed?”  

“Incorrect, Mr. McCartney.” The Potions Master almost sounded astonished, triumphant even. “Size, firmness… We’re talking about sopophorous beans here if you were paying no attention at all. There is only one factor that determines the maturity of sopophorous beans and this is none other than the colour during ripening.” Professor Epstein slowly shook his head. “Very bad, Mr. McCartney. Ten points from Slytherin.”

A loud hum swept over the classroom. It was the first time on the collective memory when Paul got negative points.  

“Hey,” Stu whispered in John’s ear. “What’s happened to him?”

“The fuck I know?” John whispered back but a little bit louder than he’d intended. Some students snickered at the comment, whilst Mr. Epstein cast a quick glance at Lennon, saying nothing as if he hadn’t heard it.

Not only Professor, but Paul too sneaked a look at John; the latter could feel it with his skin, catching Paul’s glimpse out of the tail of his eye. The stare laid heavily upon John’s senses, sending him chills down the spine. 

***

On the following morning, during the breakfast hour, a couple of owls flew into the Great Hall. John immediately recognized his owl named Borogove, a scruffy brownish bird with its feathers sticking out in all directions. The bird was carrying a scarf-long package with a hook in the middle of it by which the owl crooked its talons around it. The parcel looked big and heavy, in the claws of the nocturnal bird, but by no means it could be so, or else the poor Borogove wouldn’t have made it so far.

Astonished and big-eyed, as every student in the hall, John fixed his gaze upon his owl until the bird soared over him and carefully, as if by instruction, dropped the parcel onto John’s lap.

Wholeheartedly John hoped it wasn’t a broomstick.

He wanted it so much not to be a broomstick that he even closed his eyes and gripped the edges of the parcel, pleading morosely in his mind: _please not a broomstick, please not a broomstick--_

“Looks like a broomstick,” John heard a derisive tone that undoubtfully belonged to his friend Ivan, who sat in front of him.

With a deep sigh, John opened his eyes and gave Ivan a death look. Ivan grinned broadly at him.

More irritated than a second before, John pursed his lips into a thin line and narrowed his eyes, looking down at the package. Nonetheless, he gently petted his owl, whose claws were still looped around the hook. Borogove hooted in delight, enjoying its owner’s tender touch against its shaggy feathers.

“Stick around, Govie, ‘cause if there’s something inside I don’t wanna even think of, not to mention look at, I’ll surely need your service.”

As a reward, John gave Borogove a biscuit. The owl hooked gleefully, took the treat into its beak and flew away.

There was an envelope pinned to the parcel, making John smile the minute he’d read who was the sender.

_Dear Johnny,_

_I wish I could be there for your birthday. I miss you so much and can’t wait to see you at Christmas. I have so much to tell you and I think you have too._

_Have you opened my present yet? If not, put away this letter for a moment and see what you’ve got. This is not a broomstick as you might have thought at first. I know you don’t want to play Quidditch so I put an illusion on the box just to tease you a little. Gotcha!_

Grinning from ear to ear, John put the letter down on the table and began unwrapping the package.

“Definitely not a broomstick,” said Len, slightly disappointed. “What a pity!”

A burst of laughter hovered over the table.

“You’re all dead men,” John said in a threatening manner, casting angry looks. “And women.” He added as he noticed Astrid, Stu’s sweetheart, laughing heartily.

“And you, Stuart, you were supposed to be my biggest best mate, you traitor.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” he replied, trying to suppress his laugh. “But the memories are too vivid!”

As Stu said it, a new gale of infectious laughter made the Gryffindors doubled up with roar.

John rolled his eyes and raised his hands up. The memories were too vivid for him, too.

The first flying lesson. What a failure it had turned out to be. Not only the broomstick had smacked John in his face, and not only John couldn’t hold the balance on it, but also he had managed to fall down to the ground from the height not so higher than two feet. But well, John had never liked sports, any type of it, and he certainly never aspired to participate in one. Besides, if he, for some obscure reason, had decided to play Quidditch, he’d had to wear his glasses during the matches, and this hadn’t been something John was keen to do of his own free will. Seriously, what kind of idiot with bad eyesight would be so yearning to play Quidditch? It must be so uncomfortable to have to fix your glasses every half a minute while having a broomstick between your legs for an indeterminate amount of hours…

“Don’t listen to them, John,” Cynthia said in a tender voice. “I’m on your side.”

“Thanks, Cyn.” John sent her a wink, making her blush. “I knew I could count on you.”

When the parcel was finally ripped open, John’s jaw dropped. He had never seen any student with _it_ \-- and now he was the only one to have the privilege of possessing _this thing:_ a real cracker with a sunburnt maple neck and body, and a rosewood fretboard. The very same model the King played himself.

Mesmerized by its splendour, John ran his fingers along the strings. It was his second guitar but the recollection of his first one, that dusted in his room in Mendips, not even for a second permeated his mind at that particular moment.

John took the letter and proceeded reading it.

_This beauty is Gibson J-200 but I think you already know it. This is a magical guitar and it’s been charmed to remember the songs which were played on it. But Gibson is choosy and it only strums the melodies which it likes. It’s hard to say how many songs Gibson knows or – what is more relevant – is eager to play._

_I have asked it to play me something of Elvis and Gibson keenly fulfilled my request. These songs were performed so virtuously that it might have been Elvis himself who’d played them on Gibson, otherwise who else could it be?_

_I have also played a few melodies on it but I’m not sure if Gibson will ever play them. I’ve got some of the chords out of tune so you have to ask Gibson very earnestly to perform them for you._

_If there’s the most stubborn musical instrument in the world, it surely is Gibson. But I have a feeling you two will hit it off (sooner or later)._

_I hope you have a jolly good birthday._

_With lots of love,_

_Mum_

_P.S. Always be polite to Gibson or it might play you the most obnoxious sounds when you the least expect it to happen._

“What have you got, John?” asked Ivan, bending over the table. “Is it a… _quitar_?”

“It’s a guitar, you… pudding-head,” John chuckled as he’d commented what was in Ivan’s plate for the meal. Ivan Vaughan was born a pure-blood wizard and sometimes, like this one, his poor acquirement with the Muddle world was flamboyantly remarkable. “Don’t tell me you have never seen one. Just don’t.”

“What’s so shocking about it?” he looked astonished in some way. “Why bother to learn how to play, when you can pull a spell on it and make it sound?”

“A white lie,” Astrid, a pure-blood herself, put in, smiling. “You just want to get a rise out of John, don’t you, Ivan?”

“Aye,” he confirmed while scratching the back of his head. “Since it’s not a broomstick, anyroad…”

With a wide and cheeky grin, John got up from the table and put the guitar over his shoulder to carry it to the Gryffindor Tower before lessons began.

***

Being raised in the Muggle world, while having almost no connection to the wizarding society as a child, but knowing himself as a wizard, John needed some time to make up for lost time. Occasionally, his mother (an outstanding witch) visited him and was the first person who’d opened to little John a magical world of witchcraft and wizardry. His aunt Mimi, on contrary, had never encouraged John’s curiosity and all the magical objects -- given to John from his mother -- had been thrown into the bin straight away.

From a very young age, there wasn’t a day in his life when he didn’t have a feeling of not being in the right place. However, as he grew older, the sense of lost subsided a little but gave a place to the feeling of superiority over the other, _non-magical folks_. John realized that he was different from the rest of the people living on the same street as him, but this knowledge produced him more harm than joy.

The ordinary people seemed dull to him, rather shallow and insipid. Therefore, more often than not John tried to avoid their company, waiting impatiently for his acceptance letter from Hogwarts. But not everything, that was common among muggles, was tedious for John. Some things like art, and books, and music fascinated John deeply, and, suddenly, the world around him was no longer such a bad place.

More often than not John wondered, how come there was no decent music in the magical community and how the mere people, with no magical abilities, could have invented something like rock ‘n’ roll. It would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been so sad that, in fact, wizards and witches admired muggle-made music but they’d never tried to compose their own, something to John’s liking.

But he had the guitar now and was determined to show his fellow students some real music.

Having returned to Gryffindor common room after the dinner as quickly as he could, and not spending too much time on proper chewing technique, he found no one in the Tower. Relieved, John crouched in front of the guitar and eyed it lovingly, as he would a pretty girl, gazing at its curved body and long, proud neck.

“So… Gibson. Would you make me an honour to play some of my mother’s ditties?”

The guitar showed no form of life and at first John felt a sting of disappointment rush through him, but then the room was filled with a single-note sound, low and heavy.  

John took it as a ‘no’.

He deeply breathed in and tried again. “Please? Come on, be a good guitar and play me my mum’s song. Even if it’s bad… please?”

It was silent again. Then a weird-sounding chord was struck before some cheerful and lively melody thrummed in not so rhythmical way, turning too fast or too slow as the song progressed. Nonetheless, John was beaming broadly, fancying his mother’s playing with great fondness. 

Sooner than later, the Gryffindor common room would be packed with students, eager to hear some exotic (Muggle) music, with John being the centre of attention, of course.

***

“Everybody’s talking about you,” whispered Cynthia to John, as they sat together at the same desk during a Herbology lesson: the only class John was forbidden to sit with Sutcliff ever again… due to their little herbal experience a year ago. “Suddenly you’ve become very popular.”

“Hush it. I’ve always been popular.” John scoffed back quietly, lifting his chin.

“Sorry… I was just saying—” Her cheeks turned scarlet. “Everybody wants to hear you play. Not only Gryffindors, I mean.”

“Huh, really?” John raised his eyebrow while stifling a broad grin. “Like who?”

“Well, lots from Hufflepuff, like Mo and Barbara, some girl from Ravenclaw… can’t remember her name… a few Slytherins.”

“Slytherins? Wh-”

“Mr. Lennon!” exclaimed Professor H. Beery, as he hit his fist against his desk. “I demand you to stop wooing to Ms. Powell during my lessons. Control yourself, Mr. Lennon, or I would be obliged to ask you to leave the classroom.”

“Sorry, sir.” John lowered his head, though he was smiling. “I’ll be quiet from now on.”

“Beyond belief, Mr. Lennon. Now, as I’ve told you, if a Tentacula tries to strangle you, you can swear loudly in order to protect yourself… isn’t it exciting, Mr. Lennon?”

“Yes, very exciting, sir.” John grinned, winking at blushed Cynthia.

***

“Why don’t you ask her to go to Madam Puddifoot's with you?” asked Stu as he headed to the next lesson along with John.

“Who? Cyn?”

“Yeah. You seem to like her.”

“Well,” John scratched the back of his head, trying not to bump into the students going in front of him. “Some people are just meant not to be in a relationship, you know, and I’m one of them. And for Cyn… Well. She’s just that kind of girl who expects you to take her to the Tea Shop, and hold her hand all the time, and look deeply into her eyes, and whatnot. It’s not really my thing, you know that, Stu.”

“You know what… I’ve been thinking just like that and then – pam! – I got to know Astrid. Maybe Cynthia’s just not right for you… and you’re not good for her, either. Sorry, mate.”

“Nah, that’s fine. You took the words right out of my mouth.”

***

Before dinner, John took a stroll around Hogwarts. Somehow, the conversation with Stu affected him, making him ponder over his love interests. He realized that he had never had a steady date and all his girlfriends were merely a trophy for him. Had he ever loved somebody? Well, he was still very young and perhaps it shouldn’t worry him so much, but seeing all this happy and _so-deeply-in-love_ couples around him made John feel vulnerable as if he was incapable of falling in love and feel something more than just infatuation.

Maybe he should follow Stu’s advice and try to date Cyn? But then again, Stu’s second advice was the complete opposite of the first one. But maybe, just maybe, if he tried to be with her, then he’d love her eventually? What if there was no such thing as love at first sight, but a progressive and slow devotion that develops into love? In that case, it’d cause him no harm to try to fall for Cynthia, wouldn’t it?

Or maybe not Cynthia… somebody who wasn’t so sensitive as she. For some vague and unknown reason, John didn’t want to break her heart, though he didn’t know where it had come from.

He was descending down the hill by a flight of stone stairs when the day was getting darker and the students were heading back inside the castle. John was the only one who’d been going down, where the Forbidden Forest laid. He didn’t intend to go inside the woods, but to walk along its ancient trees.

John suddenly froze. Something wasn’t right here; he heard, or rather he thought that he’d heard, a noise coming from the trees. It sounded weird but at the same time familiar, and John, without thinking twice, went into the forest, pursuing an odd noise.

As soon as he stepped inside, he instantly recognized what it was: the smacking of the lips (or something more X-rated). John chuckled and—

His mouth dropped. But not _at what_ he’d seen, but _who_. A goody-two-shoes McCartney was ravishing a blond girl’s mouth, with his hands under her skirt, as she was pressed to the bark of the tree. Her eyes were closed so she couldn’t see John’s stare, lurking behind the lush branches.

A state of confusion overwhelmed John’s thoughts. He turned nonplussed, having no idea what he should do next: get the hell out of there or attract the couple’s attention.

It was the perfect opportunity to shatter the myth of McCartney’s squeaky-clean image by telling on him. Wasn’t it something John wanted so miserably to achieve? To catch Paul red-handed in the middle of violating the rules, especially the one that was the most punishable, entering the Forbidden Forest; but John wasn’t a rat and he’d never fall so low.

Besides, there was something else that made John feel ashamed of his thoughts along with his responses to the sight of Paul groping that girl and covering her with sensual kisses: the scene before him titillated John’s senses, and with every passing minute it was getting harder, almost impossible, to avert his gaze away. The way Paul moved against the girl, gyring his pelvis and arching his back, was too alluring to stop staring at him. And when Paul moaned, as the girl’s hand slipped into his pants, John's cheeks flushed with arousal, as if he himself had felt what Paul had been feeling.

But the more he stayed there, the more dangerous it became to stay undiscovered. And yet, John craved to watch, to stay a little bit longer and witnessed how far McCartney would go. So John stayed and saw everything, without being detected -- or so he thought.

And when he returned to the castle, all his thoughts were about Paul.

***

Later, in the Gryffindor Tower, John sat cosily into the big armchair in front of the fireplace. His sight was riveted on the burning flames but he didn’t see the fire. Blurred and chaotic, his mind tried to find an explanation of what he’d seen and how he should react to it. Suddenly, McCartney was no longer a well-behaved, saccharine boy but a lascivious, randy young man who seemed to know what he was doing… in certain matters, of course.

Could they have been friends if Paul hadn’t been sorted to Slytherin? John quickly chased this thought away: no. Even if Paul hadn’t ended up in Slytherin, he still would’ve been a-- _what exactly?_ John wasn’t sure any longer. Although he knew (or suspected?) that Paul wasn’t as virtuous as everybody thought of him, but maybe that was exactly where John had moved in the wrong direction in his thinking process from the very beginning, and maybe he’d made up Paul’s two-faced image only in his head and persuaded himself that it was true.

Even so, it didn’t reject his persistent idea to get back at Paul for being a reason for John’s constant distress, for always being in John’s mind. Nobody had ever bothered John so much, except for maybe some of his romantic interests who played hard to get, and therefore tickled John’s fancy. But Paul didn’t attract John in that way, so why John was so obsessed with him?

“All right, John?” Stu asked, out of sudden, as he flumped into the sofa. “Milles away, you are.”

“Huh?” John blinked, fixing his eyes on Stuart. Then a broad grin spread across his face; he needed a distraction, and Stu fitted for this role just fine. Excitedly, John blurted: “There’s something that will blow your mind, mate, hand on heart.”

“Mmm,” Stu hummed, watching John closely. “Go ahead.”

“I saw somebody in the Forbidden Forest, and this somebody was having a lot of fun there with a girl up against the tree.” John even held his breath, waiting for Stu’s reaction.

Stu smirked, rubbing his palms in anticipation. “Well-well! In the Forbidden Forest, that’s impressive.”

“Uh-huh,” John nodded, broadly grinning. “Your guess who it was?”

“Mm, Caldwell?”

“Nope,” John shook his head. “McCartney.”

For a moment, Stu gaped at John in silence. He was about to say something when John continued:

“He went down on her, Stu,” John whispered, licking his lips. “And she returned him the favour.”

“Wait.” Stu raised his hand and then squinted his eyes as if he’d suddenly realized something. “Wait, wait, wait… You watched McCartney doing a girl? Fucking hell, John…”  

“Hey! I only saw the outlines of it, you know, some features… Like, I knew what I’ve been seeing but I didn’t see it as I see you right now, you get me?” John tried to defend himself, feeling awkward and somehow hopeless.

“Ahh, John…” Stu threw his head back, then quickly looked back at John. “Yeah, I get it but still. It’s just… well, nasty.”

John visibly relaxed: Stu wasn’t going to blame him for that.

“What do you know about nastiness, my friend?”

“Apparently nothing, compared to you.” Stu retorted, crooking his lips.  

John chuckled, and then they both burst into laughter. 

***

The Clock Tower Courtyard was remarkably quiet that day, but that wasn’t really surprising. After all, there was a Ravenclaw-Slytherin match in high gear and the majority of students were at the Quidditch pitch.

Sitting under some ivy-covered arch, John took out his notebook with a great determination to write down some of the chords which he’d managed to memorize but didn’t know the proper names of them. The time was passing away quickly for John as he was totally absorbed in what he was doing. And when he heard somebody calling his name, John had nearly jumped in his seat.

“Hey up, John,” somebody said, flopping down next to him. “How are you?”

John looked up and turned his head towards the voice: it was George Harrison.

“Oh, hi… What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be rooting for your House now?”

“I’m not into sports, you know. And neither are you, as a matter of fact.”

“Right.” John nodded. “That makes two of us.”

They both fell silent for a moment before George blundered out:

“How’s your guitar? I’m so jealous, you know. I play too, haven’t I mentioned it? Anyroad, I left mine at home, you see. Somehow, it’s never crossed my mind to take it into Hogwarts. I just—I’ve never seen anybody with a guitar here so… It’s not very common here, what do you reckon?”

“Agree. In fact, if it wasn’t for my mum, I’d be in the same situation as you, mate. I also left mine at home. That was my mum’s present, you see.”

“Well, that's grand. Both of mine parents are Muggles, you know. And they’re still confused with all this owl post thing.” George said and stayed quiet for a while before he added in an amused voice. “Oh, mate, you should’ve seen their faces that day when I received my _‘George Harrison, you’re a wizard,’_ letter. They thought it was some kind of joke, you know, since I’m—”

“Since you’re the only wizard in your family, I know. You’ve told me this, like, zillion times already, my dear Hazza. I think a zillion and one would be a little too much to deal with, eh?”

“That’s not very nice, you know? Interrupting people like that.”  

John heaved a deep sigh.

“Look, George… I’m kind of in the middle of something here.” He pointed at his notes with his chin.

“Oh, all right. But since I’ve caught you…”

“Yeah?”

“Well, there’s one girl in my House who’s gone crazy over you.”

“Oh yeah? Well, what can I say, girls like me,” John shrugged his shoulders, smiling smugly. “Who’s she?”

“She’s in the seventh year,” George said in an ambiguous tone, creating an air of mystery around him and also giving John a moment to ponder.

John raised an eyebrow, taciturnly declining a chance to play a guessing game.

Slightly dissappointed, George emitted a sound like a huff, “Yoko Ono.”

“Do I know her?” John asked after a pause.

“How the heck should I know?”

“Is she pretty?”

“Well…” George managed to drawl a single word for almost a minute. “Everything is lovely when the geese honk high.” He said thoughtfully after a while, slightly nodding his head to emphasize the depth of his adage. 

This time John lifted both of his eyebrows.

“So, if I got it right, you mean you gotta be high -- like _really-really_ high -- to see her beautiful, am I right?”

George cleared his throat, “I just meant that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, that is.”

“Oh.” John said meaningfully. “She’s Asian, innit?”

“Aye,” George nodded. “Japanese.”

“Uh-huh. So… shouldn’t she be in Mahoutokoro or something? What is she doing here at Hogwarts?”

“That’s a very good question, John. There’s an enigma around her which, it seems like, she created herself. The thing is, nobody in Ravenclaw -- or any other house, for that matter -- remembers her being sorted out by The Sorting Hat and, what is more, nobody as well can recall her seeing in the Ravenclaw common room during the first year, I mean -- _at all_.”

“How mysterious,” John smirked. “Anything else?”

“Just one advice,” George stood up, looking down at John. “Keep your eyes open. She’s that kind of a girl who’s not taking no for an answer. Thinks she has a moment with you, she’ll use a love potion on you, quick as look at you twice.”

“Uh-huh. You know, I think it’ll be quite a dif—” John suddenly fell quiet as a dangerous thought had entered his mind. “George! You’re a sage!” He exclaimed loudly and threw his arms over George’s shoulders, spinning him around.

“As in plant or as in wise?” George played dumb, crooking his lips.

“Oi, sod off,” John chuckled, letting George go of his clutch. “Don’t spoil your reputation of a wise lad.”

“What is reputation?”

“The thing you know nothing about until you tarnish it.”

“That was a rhetorical question.” George said over his shoulders, leaving John alone.

***

A love potion. How come this idea had never crossed his mind?

But of course, deep inside, he knew why. For some reasons, love potions were only used by women and were considered to be nothing but a little mischief. But even if the effects of the brew wear off quickly, the memories could last forever.

 _Nothing but a little mischief._ That was exactly what John was looking for and craved so much to do. Some funny business with McCartney that wouldn’t hurt anybody, but bring a little bit of fun. Besides, if John couldn’t catch Paul in flagrante delicto, he would create it himself – a scene of action with his own requisite.

After all, it was a long-running fixation, an importunate obsession, that never ceased to escape John’s mind: the idée fixe of getting McCartney, one way or another. It was something inside his head, some kind of a noisome bug that kept on nagging at John over and over again: _get him, you have to get Paul, get him… just get him and see how it will play out for you._

***

Divination.

John didn’t want to go. He was crying like a mandragora inside his chest.

“Come on, John, buck up.” Stu gave John a nudge, as they were climbing up the stairs. “The last lesson wasn’t really that bad.”

“Right,” John grumbled. “Let me guess, you saw tits or balls in the crystal ball?”

Stu chuckled.

“No crystal-gazing, Johnny-boy. We’ve started oneiromancy that gonna last till the end of the month.”

“Bloody fantastic.” 

They walked into the class and sat down at the desk when John spoke again.

“This oni-romancy… what this is about, anyhow?”

“It’s about—” Stu started but didn’t finish as Professor Varma, a zany old man with long grey hair and equally long, triangular-like beard, dressed into white robes, came into the class, as he was greeted by a hum of students’ voices.

“Have you had dreams last night?” was the first thing the professor said. “Today we’re going to look into your vague and winding dreams and clarify their hidden meanings. We will interpret your most hair-raising nightmares and learn how to comprehend them… Now, who'd like to speak first?”

Only Harrison raised his hand, looking very at ease, sitting next to his close friend Klaus Voormann, who was at the same House with him.

“Later, Mr. Harrison, later… I know you’re a very diligent student but please… give the other students a chance, Mr. Harrison. What about… Mr. Lennon, for one. Please, Mr. Lennon, share with us your dreams, your vision…”

“Excuse me, Professor, but I’m afraid I can’t remember any.”

“No, no… this is very dubious… ambivalent, but only if… Have you started your dream dairy?”

John cast Stu a quick, almost accusing look, _‘Dream diary? Really?’_

“No, sir. As I said, I can’t remember them.”

“This is very bad, Mr. Lennon… So, maybe you’d like to share something that you have managed to remember over the past years. The dream that left an imprint in your soul.”

“Well, yes. But you see, Professor, these dreams that I had-- well, they’re not very appropriate to be shared with the class, sir.” John tilted his head, giving a single lick over his lips. “I don’t wanna embarrass the girls.”

There was a burst of a giggle in the classroom along with quiet whispering.

“I see, Mr. Lennon.” Prasad Varma said. “I have to ask you to stay after class, I’m afraid.”

“Of course, sir.” John lowered his head, trying to look guilty but he failed tragically as a smirk couldn’t get off his face. He didn’t care much about Professor Varma, let alone this subject. The love potion had completely occupied his thoughts and the things he might do to the drinker. Tomorrow he’d visit Hogsmeade village where it wouldn’t be such a great deal to find this particular brew.

Having his head high in the clouds, John stared at something in front of him, ‘something’ that happened to be Cynthia Powell, red-cheeked and bright-eyed. Taken off guard, she might have guessed John had been ogling her, but, in fact, he’d hardly noticed her, the eyes fixed on her but his focus blurred, looking through her. The centre of his attention was zeroed in on Paul McCartney, his mental image, solely and exclusively.

Supposing Paul drank the potion and instantly fell in love with John -- and what’s next? What should he do with a love-smitten McCartney? And how could he mock him a little for being in love with John? And why he, John himself, wanted so desperately to make Paul love him?

Right now, it seemed to John that his mind had been set on McCartney since the day he saw him for the very first time, but that wasn’t true. The day he laid his eyes on Paul – the very moment his name had been announced to approach the Sorting Hat – John wasn’t all that impressed with him or he didn’t really _notice_ him, for that matter.

At that point of time Paul was a plump kid with pinkish, chubby cheeks – a complete opposite to a lean, angular-built John – and for that reason, it would have been odd (for John, at least) to befriend a cherublike boy who looked more than frightened with the Sorting Hat on his head as it cried, loud and clear, ‘Slytherin!’

Since then, six years had passed and lots of things had changed, but mostly Paul. As if reshaped by a wave of a magic wand, he turned into a gorgeous young man and became one of the most handsome students of Hogwarts. And, unconsciously, John envied him deeply.

John blinked a few times as he found himself staring frozenly at Cynthia. He sent her a wink before he averted his look and returned back to his thoughts under the sound of George’s monotonous rumbling about his dreams.

***

While the Gryffindors were getting ready for bed, slowly and clumsily leaving the common room, John was preparing for his intense, fingers-sored guitar practice. Though he still didn’t know enough chords to play something more difficult than D-C-F-G (which he’d learned during his summer holidays), John toyed with the strings, strumming them in different ways. But how much he wished to have someone who’d name and show him a few more chords!

Should he ask George? Maybe he knew some chords John didn’t. Or maybe George knew somebody who played the guitar too, right here at Hogwarts.

John sighed, deep in his thoughts, not long before he heard sharp sounds coming behind his back. He turned his head and saw an owl with a letter in its beak that was staring directly at John, waiting for him to open the window. It was John’s owl Borogove but John only recognized his pet when he let it inside the room.

Amused, he took the letter from his owl’s beak; the letter without the envelope, a simple piece of folded paper. John read it, with a frown on his forehead and confusion in his heart. He’d deal with it later, it was too late to ponder anyway.

 _You_  
_Owe me a_  
_Kiss in the_  
_Offing_

With a silly smirk, John put the letter in the back pocket of his trousers and stroke his owl’s neck. He’d go to the dormitory soon.

***

The first place John headed to, when he’d reached Hogsmeade, was Zonko's Joke Shop. He’d been thinking for some time now where he could get the brew he needed, and to his luck, the chosen shop paid off just right. There, indeed, were love potions for sale and some other oddball products (like Frog Spawn Soap which caught John’s attention and he bought it too, without much hesitation).

With all the needful things in his hands, John was about to make his way to the pay desk when somebody bumped into him, making John almost drop down the potion.

“Hey! Watch out, you— Oh.” John hushed as he, as stealthily as he could, hid his stuff behind his back. “Hi, Ritch.”

“Hi yourself.” Ritchie smiled, watching John’s gawky movements. “Are you hiding something that I think you’re hiding?”

“Huh?” John said after a small pause.

“Something pink and heart-formed.” Ritchie rolled his eyes. “Love potion, John? Really?”

“Well.” John stepped back. “That’s not what you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking, exactly?”

“You know,” John tilted his head, his cheeks reddened. “I’m not that desperate. This is just a joke, that’s it. We’re at Zonko’s, for fuck’s sake.”

There was a minute of silence, then a wide grin spread across Ritchie’s face.

“Well, all right then. Can I see it, this joke, I mean? When do you plan to pull it?”

“I don’t know yet. When a chance comes, I reckon.”

“Ah, okay. And… who’s this unlucky person?”

John crooked his lips.

“Sorry, Ritch. Can’t tell you now, but you’ll see, all right?”

For a moment Starkey looked closely at John, with a mix of curiosity and some kind of slight disapproval on his face. Then a mild smile broke on his face.

“All right. I’ll see you later then?”

“Sure.” John nodded, quickly adding something before Starkey hadn’t swung around on his feet and gone. “Oh, and Ritch—”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll be mute as a fish.”

***

Nothing worked. Days came and went, but still John couldn’t make up his mind how and what he should do to spike his target’s beverage. Paul just wouldn’t drink anything given to him from John’s hands, John realized it. So, he had to find somebody else to do it instead of him.

The question was: who?

The first guess fell on Stu, but he certainly wouldn’t agree as he’d already had enough of John’s childish escapades and consequences that followed for them both. Leaving aside, it would’ve looked more than suspicious, a small talk between Sutcliff and McCartney.

But if not Stu, who else could fit for such a task?

John knew for sure he shouldn’t ask girls: they weren’t trustworthy in such matters, and the trick would become an open secret within minutes.

Should he persuade somebody from Slytherin? If only he’d befriended somebody from that House… it would’ve been so much easier to get Paul somehow.  

Who else, who else… Ivan, Len, Colin? No, they all were from Gryffindor and John didn’t know if any of them had ever uttered a word to McCartney.

This somebody must be outside of Gryffindor, John decided. Somebody from Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, somebody… George? He wouldn’t look suspicious, all right, but John would never get his approval for that rather unfair deed. Besides, George was on good terms with Paul, so he wouldn’t do anything like this to his friend. George wasn’t a good match, either.

Why was it so hard to choose an accomplice in crime? God. John just needed somebody who was approachable and easy-going, well disposed and good-humoured. Somebody like… Ringo.

Yes! The best person for this role was none other than Starkey: a perfect lad who didn’t look suspicious and who wouldn’t suspect anything (that something wasn’t right). A diligent but not the brightest student was the best suitable person for this unholy mission.

***

John was awakened by a sharp pierce in his stomach. He moaned with light but sudden pain as he prodded against the bedframe. Borogove had perched on top of him, staring at John with its big, dark eyes.

“The hell, Govie,” John whispered, rubbing his eyes. “Who let you in?” he asked before he realized: no one. Somebody just hadn’t shut the window.

There was a new letter for John in his owl’s claws.

Alarmed that something might have been urgent, John quickly grabbed the letter, with no envelope, of course.

He unfolded it and read: 

 _Last night I had a dream about you_  
_But I won't tell you what you did in it._  
_I think you'll have a dream about me too_  
_And I wonder if your dream would be_  
_An extension of my own._

John groaned loudly, throwing his head back. He hit it with the frame and groaned again, louder this time. And then he was no longer the only one who wasn’t asleep.

“Who’s this bloody wanker?!”

“Is Lennon masturbating again?”

“Do you always have to moan?”

Somebody turned on the light. Borogove hooted as it flew out of the dormitory, and John cursed.

“Shut up! Somebody’s fucking stalking me!”

“What do you mean?” asked Ivan, in the bed next to him.

“I keep receiving these bloody letters, it’s like I’ve had dozens of them already.”

“From whom?” asked Len.

“Ah,” John smirked, though he wasn’t too pleased. “Some secret admirer. Some crazy bird.”

“What’s her name?”

“Have you met yet?”

“What’s she like?”

Well, it was hard to tell since John hadn’t seen her just yet. Nevertheless, he chuckled and promised to get into details first thing tomorrow morning.  

***

“Hey, Ritch!” John shouted as he noticed Starkey sitting on the branch with two lads from Hufflepuff in the courtyard. The day was getting colder and fewer and fewer students preferred to stay outside with each passing day.

Ritchie turned his head in the direction of a voice calling his name. He saw Lennon waving at him and he waved him back, greeting him with a smile, though it went unnoticed, as a big woollen scarf had been covering half of his head.

“Hey, John,” was the answer, when John had crossed the yard and stood above him. “How you doing?”

“Mm? Oh, great. Great… Look, Ritch, there’s one thing I wanna talk to you,” John said, looking at Ritchie’s companions,” in private if you fellas don’t mind.”

One of them glanced at Ritchie, the other just shrugged his shoulders.

“Okay. See you later, Ringo,” said the one with brown hair.

As they left, John flopped next to Ritchie, lifting his eyebrow. “Ringo?”

“Oh, aye. My nickname, you see. I’ve got this one from Mo,” he said, showing his hand with a ring on the little finger. “So, it kinda stuck to me, you know.” Ritchie looked expectedly at John who’d been staring at his ring. “Um, so what is this thing about then?”

“What thing?” John said, mesmerised. “Oh, right! Well, you know, about that joke,” he waved his hand in a vague manner. “Come on, Ritch! You know what I mean.”

“Um. Not really, no.”

John sighed more than dramatically.

“The brew I bought at Zonko’s,” he said, feeling his cheeks getting warmer. “I think, I’ll need your… mm… participation in this… deed.”

An awkward silence ensued for a few seconds before Ritchie broke it.

“Ah?” he blinked, feeling confused. “How’s that, John?”

“I’ll tell you.” John quickly nodded. “But at first I need your word you’re with me at it. What do you say?”

“Hm.”

John raised both of his eyebrows. “Hm?”

“I don’t know, John. Just… what are you gonna do with this madly-in-love-with-you somebody? What is your… intention?”

“Oh.” Was Ritchie insinuating something disgraceful? John recoiled slightly, then he quickly added: “There’s nothing bad or naughty, I promise! Well, I just… just want h— _this person_ to make a public announcement how much… erm… this person loves me, you see, and how long I’ve been a secret crush of— err… this person, that’s it.”

“What?” deadpanned Ringo. “I mean, why do you want to—well, humiliate, it this a right word? – this poor girl so much?”

John turned red. Was there any subtle way how to put it less painfully? “Because this is _not a girl_ , Ritchie. It’s, well, it’s a lad.”

Ritchie’s big blue eyes became even bigger. He looked shocked. “ _A lad?!_ ”

“Yeah. A lad. So… are you with me?”

“Well, it’s…” Ritchie shuffled his feet, ill at ease. John looked at him pleadingly. “Hm. I guess… it might be fun, yeah?”

John smiled, quickly grasping at straws that a chance gave him. “Yeah, really-really funny. So?... Are you in?”

A frown touched Ritchie’s face before it swiftly disappeared to be replaced with a modest smile.

“All right. I’m in.”

John grinned from ear to ear. “Grand! Now, here’s my plan—”

“Wait,” Ritchie interrupted. “You never said who was this lad.”

“Ah. It’s Paul McCartney. Now—”

“McCartney?” Starkey chuckled, taken more than slightly aback. “Wait… _McCartney?!_ ”

“Yeah,” John gritted though teeth, for some reason feeling offended. “What about it?”

“Nothing,” Ritchie put up his arms in surrender. “It’s just hilarious, that’s it.”

“Well. It’s supposed to be hilarious, innit? All right now, listen up, will you?”

The plan was simple, with only three actions to perform. John quickly went into the details, describing everything with a great enthusiasm in his voice, as if he hadn’t considered a thought that at some point the plan might go wrong.

***

There wasn’t a single place to sit in the Three Broomsticks Inn, as per usual, being overcrowded and noisy by all sort of customers, and John, who had come in there half an hour ago, started to worry how Ritchie, along with McCartney, would manage to find a free table -- if they ever come at all.

They did, eventually, and even managed to find a table which had been previously occupied by the company of three village wizards before they had left the place. Both of them ordered two butterbeers (as John had expected) sitting in the corner of the inn.

John didn’t know if the two of them had actually spotted him, in the middle of the pub, with back to where they’d seated themselves, but even if they had, they didn’t show it.

John felt excited. He couldn’t wait for his move, drumming his legs irregularly against the wooden floor. But as the time was nearing for his next action, the first wave of excitement had subdued, giving place to a new feeling: fear. And John found himself thinking that he’d never have the guts to do it unless he stood up right this very second. So, as quickly as he could, John sprang to his feet, trying to keep his fear at bay, as he clenched his fists and made a beeline for the right table.

Ritchie was the first to notice John. He held his gaze for a moment, then grabbed his beverage and took a big gulp. 

As John reached their table, he hovered over Paul, looking down at him.

“Ahem-- McCartney?”

At first John thought he’d become invisible as Paul gave him no notice of his presence, but then he slowly raised his eyes up and gave John a cross look. “What do you want?” he didn’t sound amicable.

“Can I have a word with you?”

“You what? Is this some kind of joke?”

“I’m dead serious. Come on, it won’t take longer than a minute, it’s just… I have something really important to tell you. Come on, stand up and go with me over that table. Please?”

“Whoa. You actually know the word ‘please’?”

“You’d be even more surprised what else I know if you were so kind to get up your arse and follow me over there.”

Paul darted a glance at Ritchie who, consequently, shrugged his shoulders when he’d noticed Paul’s questioning look. After a moment of hesitation, Paul eventually stood up (which caused John to stifle a smirk) and followed Lennon to his table.

“Here’s your minute.” Paul said as he sat in front of John. “What do you want from me?”

“Well, the thing is… I was wondering, you know, where did we go wrong… and, you know… why it didn't really work out between us.”

The expression on Paul’s face made him look like a stunning spell had been cast over him: eyes big and wide, and zeroed in on John. 

“…what?”

“Can we have another chance?” John blurted, fidgeting his fingers.

Paul’s brows knitted into a frown. He looked utterly uncomfortable, sitting there at the same table with John.

“What’s got into you? After all these years-- Why?”

“’cause I’m giving you – _us_ – a chance, that’s why.” John said firmly. “Maybe you’re not such a sleazy prick as I’ve thought of you before, all right? And that’s… while there is still time, why don’t we try to fix it, I mean… why not, really?”

In silence, except for the noise in the background, they stared narrowly at each other. Paul’s eyes were magnified with wary doubt, while John’s, in contrast, were determined with something Paul couldn’t read.   

“You’re out of your mind.” Paul finally said. He stood up and got back to Ritchie.

John’s gaze followed Paul all the way to his and Starkey’s table. He watched as Paul sat back down and shot John a vexed glare, grumbling something to Ritchie until the latter turned his head back and gave John a sad, condemning expression.

 _Had he done it_ , John wondered. He averted his eyes for a second but then quickly looked back at Paul. Then he saw it -- Paul drinking his beverage in one gulp, draining his mug to the very bottom -– and John’s heart skipped a bit with anticipation. A stain of foam left on Paul’s upper lip and it made him look like a perky little child.

John held his breath. Time seemed to stop and the buzz of voices, harsh and scratchy, became quiet, sprawling out in a slow, idiosyncratic manner. _How long till the potion comes into play?_

John exhaled deeply. A sudden noise rang in front of him: it came with a thud of the chair moving against the hardwood floor as Paul sprang to his feet and headed right towards John.

“All right,” Paul said excitedly, almost out of breath, with a sloshed grin all over his face. “Let’s be pals.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter. I hope it's not as bad as I think it is :)

A dry lump formed in John’s throat he couldn’t swallow.

Nobody had ever been looking at him like this before, with a gaze of intense curiosity and a twinkle in the eyes of something evanescent to decipher. Paul’s features, out of sudden, became soft and smooth, or maybe they had always been like these but John just hadn’t noticed.

He grabbed his drink and quaffed it down in one go.

Still smiling, Paul raised his eyebrows and said in a tone of resolute determination:

“You still want me to, right?”

“Huh?” John blinked, feeling stupid.

“Work it out. Do you still want it? With me, I mean.”

“Yes! I just…”

“Just what?”

“I’m just surprised,” John lied, fidgeting his fingers. “That’s all.”

“You don't even have a clue what I'm feeling right now,” Paul said and beamed into a grin.

Indeed, John didn’t. How did it feel to be under the potion which made you love somebody? John didn’t have knowledge of that, but he could imagine.  _Should be like being tipsy,_ he decided,  _judging by Paul’s look and—_

“I feel--” Paul began as if he’d read John’s thoughts. “Oh sod it! I feel so dizzy, you know. Like, I’m about to fall or something. I don’t really know.”

“Fall?” John repeated like a parrot, knitting his brows.

“Yeah,” Paul chuckled. “At any rate, don’t listen to me. I myself don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Mm.” John felt utter uncomfortable. “In that case, should we find a calmer place or go anywhere, really… what do you reckon?”

“Yeah, all right.” Pau’s grin became wider. “Sounds like a good idea.”

Simultaneously they stood up. John gave Paul an awkward smile, with his hand beckoning him outside the inn. John managed to cast a final glace at the table where Ritchie had been sitting, staring gloomily at his mug of butterbeer.

“So, where’re we going, Johnny?”

John stiffed. It wasn’t right, this artificial admiration in Paul’s voice and behaviour. He shouldn’t have started this affair with love potion in the first place.

John swallowed again, “Well… what’s about the lake? Shall we go there?”

“Off we go then!” Paul nodded vigorously.

As they went along the streets of Hogsmead, a numerous of eyes were staring at the pair with a great deal of astonishment, and it made John feel unbearably uneasy. A few times he caught a glimpse of Paul walking next to him, with a light smile glued upon his lips. They didn’t talk as they wended their way away from the village on account of many students, who were gaping unabashedly at them tramping together.

It was rather cold at the lakeside, but the surroundings were empty and solitary. The wind was blowing across the water, creating a flat surface on the lake, and ruffing the boys’ hair.

Stealthily, John peeked at Paul, who’d been staring into the distance at the far side of the lake. Having no clue how he should start the dialogue, John squatted down and picked a smooth stone before skipping it across the water. The stone bounced off the surface five times and then went down to the bottom, leaving a trace of distinct circles.

Paul looked down at John, tilting his head.

“Ducks and drakes?” John asked with a light smile.

“Gladly.”

They grinned at each other as if they’d been good friends for a long time. John took another stone and handed it to Paul, still squatting on the ground, and for a brief moment, their fingers met in a warm heat.

With his left hand, Paul threw the stone sidearm, leaving only two circles with it on the water.

“You’re a lefty?”

“Yes.”

John nodded as if making a mental note.

“Try to bend your knees a little, or squat down like me. Here-” he picked out another stone. “Go ahead.”

As John had told, Paul bent his knees and sent the stone far across the lake. With a splash, the stone sank down.

“Argh!” Paul exclaimed and rolled his eyes.

John chuckled and stood up with one more stone in his hand.

“Watch this,” he threw the stone, smiling triumphantly, as it skimmed along the water seven times.

Paul took another stone and flung it too keenly to make more than two circles again.

“How you do it?”

“Easy-peasy,” John grinned, taking two stone for Paul and him. “Look, bend your hand like this, a little bit closer to your chest. Yup, that’s right. Now, bend your knees. Lower. Lower,” John laughed, as Paul squirmed his body into a weird positon; Paul sent him a perky glare. “Higher now, freeze! Atta-boy.”

“And? Can I cast it now?”

“Um, almost.” John said, scratching the back of his head. “Your palm. Can I—” his cheeks gained in colour, with a brief thought of having to touch Paul’s hand. “Can I position it in the right way?”

“Sure, go on.” Paul nodded, for a moment forgetting to stand still, disfiguring his position.

“No!” John exclaimed in a dramatic manner, raising his hands to the sky and pulling a face. Paul laughed heartily, doubling up at the hilarity of John’s comedy performance, and for some reason, John felt pleased with himself. “Let me fix your stance,” John added after a while when the flow of Paul’s laughter had lessened.

“Still waiting,” Paul said jokingly, watching John with a sparkle of interest in his hazel eyes. By this time, the gust of wind had turned his hair into a tousled mess, though it made him look even more adorable.

John chased the thought away, shaking his head a little as if it’d help to get rid of an unlooked-for impression. He moved closer to Paul, standing behind him. Feeling embarrassed, John carefully took Paul by his elbow and crooked his arm, lifting his hand and shifting it closer to Paul’s chest.

“Bend your knees,” John whispered in a husky tone. “Lower.”

“Like this?” Paul asked in an equal hoarse voice, his back touching John’s torso.

“Yeah,” John answered even quieter than before, as he stretched his hand forward and wrapped his fingers around Paul’s palm, adding the final touch on Paul’s proper posture.

“Here you go,” John murmured and stepped away from Paul.

Paul skimmed the stone on the water, his gaze followed the ‘pancakes’ emerging on the surface as the stone was passing over further and further.

“Eight times!” Paul exclaimed, giving John a nudge. “Seems like a new world record, doesn’t it?”

“Aye, right. With a little help of mine.”

“Is that so?” Paul cocked an eyebrow. “Try to beat me then!”

“With pleasure,” John chortled and bowed low before the Slytherin boy. He didn’t stand upright, but bent his knees into a squatting position. His stone touched the water five times.

Paul chuckled. “And thus James Paul McCartney holds the world record for stone skipping.”

“Wait a moment till I break it.” John grumbled, although he wasn’t truly upset.

“Take as much time as you need, darling.” Paul laughed, receiving a puzzled countenance from John. Casually, Paul shrugged his shoulders and made John a gesture to forge ahead.

They played ducks and drakes for quite some time, and still John couldn’t manage to defeat Paul, keeping his score at seven circles.

“I've created a monster.” John complained when his right hand became sore of crooking it many times.

“Do you wanna get back to Hogwarts?” Paul asked out of blue. “It’s getting late.”

“Um. Let’s get back after the sunset, all right?”

“Yeah, all right.” Paul grinned, though something wasn’t right as a ghost of a strange emotion reflected in his eyes.

John felt ill at east again. Oddly enough, but he’d enjoyed McCartney’s company and genially didn’t want this day to come to an end just yet. Though they didn’t speak much, John liked joshing with Paul immensely. It was much better jesting with each other in a friendly way, than throwing derisive remarks… mostly from John’s part, anyway. The lad was quite witty, John saw Paul differently now, and it made John badly regret lacing Paul’s drink with love potion. The brew, assumingly, would last until tomorrow evening and so John still had time to think things over. And tomorrow he’d still have an opportunity to spend time with Paul before the spell wore off.  

That went without saying: as soon as Paul’s mind would be clear from the potion’s influence, he’d contempt John with renewed vigour.

Again, John shouldn’t had done this, compelling Paul to artificially love him, while knowing that if he kissed Paul, the latter wouldn’t complain.

“There’s a fallen truck over there,” Paul said, interrupting John’s steam of thoughts. “Let’s go. It’d be nice watching the sun going down from that spot.”  

John didn’t have time to answer as Paul had clasped his fingers around John’s wrist and made John follow after him. Like a shadow, John walked behind Paul, letting himself being dragged by Paul’s firm grasp.

Tentatively, John flopped down next to Paul, too far to feel the heat emanating from Paul’s body. But keeping himself away from Paul’s proximity was the last bastion of John’s common sense.

As Paul had guessed, the view in front of them was truly marvellous, with the sun descending into the lake, mauve tints of glimmering light across the horizon.  

It was Paul who overcame the distance between them, moving closer to John, his ankle almost grazing John’s leg.

John’s heart sank. It felt nice sitting so close to Paul, and for a splitting second a desire to press his thigh against Paul’s hip conquered John’s mind. Perhaps the love potion worked both ways.

“Wanna sit with me at Potions tomorrow?” Paul asked, his eyes fixed on the scenery.

“Um. Yes, sure.” John paused. “Everybody’s gonna blow their mind when they see us together.”

“Yeah,” Paul agreed, turning his head to John. “But mostly the Potions Master.”

“What do you mean?” John, too, turned his head, looking closely at Paul.

“Like you don’t know,” Paul smirked as he looked back at the sunset. “He treats you differently, don’t you notice it?”

“So what? Can I have at least one professor who likes me more than they like you?” John blurted, and his eyes narrowed to slits.

“What does that have to do with anything? Look, John, what I meant to say was—“

“Don't strain yourself,” John cut Paul short, in a flash springing to his feet as if the trunk was set on fire. “I knew I sh—“

“Wait!” Paul caught John by his long sleeve. “Let me finish for once, bloody hell!”

“Well, start talking, then.” John rumbled but sat down anyway, staring intently at Paul.

Paul sighed and looked at the horizon: the sun had almost disappeared as if it’d dived into the water.  His eyes were back at John. “Somebody loves you but you can’t see it.”

John let his guard down and a hint of a smile touched his mouth. Paul’s remark made John lighten up his sudden annoyance, though he misunderstood Paul’s words, interpreting them out of the context.

“I’m short-sighted so it’s no wonder I couldn’t make it out.” 

“Yeah, I thought it as much. You often squint your eyes, like you’re a mole or something.” 

“Moles don’t have eyes, you know.”

“Actually, they have. They’re just too small to be distinguished… In fact, I’m not surprised you’ve never noticed them eyes.” Paul gave a little chuckle.  

“I’m not even sure if I’ve seen a mole before,” John pondered, “outside of books, at least. Have you?”   

“Mm? Oh, aye.  In my backyard, when I was a kid. Me and my brother were playing there, digging something in the ground, when a mole scrambled out on the surface.” Paul paused. “Mike screamed so hard, our neighbours knocked on the door!” He added with a giggle. “Later that day mum had to soothe him till Mike became more or less sure that the mole wasn’t an overgrown worm.”

John smiled, “What happened next?”

“Then my dad invited some sort of a gardener to find out how come there was a ‘pest’ in our yard, you know. Though, I still don’t know why he was so upset, I mean, we’re not farmers or something to worry about the soil.”

“Your brother a wizard too?”

“No. I’m the only wizard in my family.”

The wind got up, blowing with stronger gusts. John shuddered with cold, thinking it was time for heading back into the Gryffindor Towel… just a little bit later, though.

“What about you?” Paul asked, glancing at John.

“My mum’s a witch. She fell in love with a Muggle who dumped her after my birth.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah, that’s fine. He sort of couldn’t stand the magic… literally floating in the air.”

“So, you lived with your mum then?”

“No. With my auntie, actually. She’s a Muggle so my childhood wasn’t very magical, in every sense.”

Paul sneezed and then began to sniffle. “It’s getting colder, innit?”

“Yeah,” John sighed. “Let’s go back inside, I guess.”

They headed back to Hogwarts, both squirming with cold, muffling up tightly in their coats and scarves. Oh how nice it’d be to sit on the sofa before the fireplace in Gryffindor Tower, with a warm plaid on the knees… Was there a fireplace in Slytherin common room, too? There should be so freezing cold in the dungeons below the Great Lake, shouldn’t it?

“What’s your common room like?” John asked as he peeped at Paul.

“Erm, the walls are covered with green banners.” Paul said, sounding wheezy.

“That’s… unexpected.” John sniggered, crooking his lips.

“Well, there’s a high celling. And also—”

“Is it really under the lake?” John briskly interrupted and waved his hand backward over his shoulder.

“Yes.”

“And… you can observe water creatures swimming by behind the windows?”

“Yeah, that’s too.”

“Ever seen a mermaid?”

“Yeah, it was frigging scary, you know. Ugly teeth, yellow eyes.”

John wanted Paul to ask more questions, but by that time they’d reached the entrance to the castle and had to part, with the towel above the staircase and the dungeons underneath waiting respectively for John and Paul.

“Well… see you in the morning then?” Paul asked tentatively.

“Yeah.” John responded, scratching the back of his head, while looking at his feet. “Night…  _Paul_.”

“Yeah. Good night.”

***

Walking up the stairs, John hoped he wouldn’t meet anyone along his way to the Gryffindor common room. He was too cold and pensive to blabber on about some trifling matters. Fortunately, the staircase was uncrowded, but alas, his wish wasn’t granted.

“Hey, John! Where you’ve been?” shouted materialised from nowhere Ritchie coming down from the higher floors. “I thought you’d—” abruptly he fell silent as he saw John’s scowling face.

“What?!” John snapped, not caring to stop ascending the staircase.

Ritchie, feeling confused, dashed after John, though not as zealous as a moment before.  

“Er, so h-how did it go with McCartney?”

“It didn’t.” John almost barked with irritation. Didn’t Ritchie see John wasn’t in a mood to have a conversation?

“What?” Ritchie huffed as he was struggling to keep pace with John and also not to fall face forward onto the tiled stairs. “What do you mean?”

“I did nothing. End of the show.”

“But why?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” John suddenly stopped and looked narrowly at Starkey. “I couldn’t do it, all right? Didn’t come up with something or whatever. Does it really matter?”

A perplexed look crossed Ritchie’s face. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, I don’t know, John. Apparently, it doesn’t, if you say so yourself.”

“Oi, just forget it!” John exclaimed disappointedly, scuttling away from Ritchie and leaving the lad standing behind. Ritchie frowned as he noticed, although too late, that the staircase began moving, changing its direction towards Ritchie’s unwanted floor.   

***

John didn’t sleep much that night. Laying in the bed, with his eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling, he’d been brooding over everything he’d said previously to Paul, and vice versa. In truth, John had never concocted a so-called revenge plan over Paul’s attitude towards him, and half-heartedly John hoped, that he’d have made something up instantly, the second Paul had drunk the potion. After all, John was a spontaneous person and thorough planning had never been a strength of his.

Something had changed between them, a small, trivial talk had made a big difference to the nature of John’s strained relations with Paul, and he, John, wished he hadn’t been such a dunce in the very beginning before he had a chance to catch a snippet of Paul’s personality, getting to know him. Paul seemed to be a nice fellow, but it only made it worse. John no longer wanted to bring Paul down a peg, and so he had to devise a new plan how to start over with Paul, and quickly.

***

The first morning lesson was none other than Potions. Although the night was long, John hadn’t come up with the decision what he should do. To sit with Paul, or not to sit, that was the dilemma John still had been facing until the very minute he walked into the class. He was late and beforehand had asked Stuart not to wait for him. John hadn’t attended the breakfast, either.

To John’s great surprise, Stu was nowhere to be seen in the classroom; Astrid, too.

And Paul… well, Paul had been sitting alone. What a coincidence.

“Ah, Mr. Lennon!” the Potions Master exclaimed cheerfully, a polite smile on his face. “I'm delighted you're finally h—” the smile crept off his mouth, turning itself into a thin line of colossal incomprehension.

John had seated himself at the table next to Paul. The classroom fell silent, and a range of gaping faces and wide eyes followed John’s direction.

“Excuse us, sir, for being a bit late,” panted Stuart, looking sweaty and flustered, as he’d run into the classroom with Astrid’s hand in his. Her hair was tousled and her cheeks were flushed. Stu shot John an astounded look before a sly smirk twisted his lips. And at this moment it seemed to John that everybody in the entire Hogwarts knew something he wasn’t aware of.

“Right,” said the professor, after a minute of overall confusion. “In this lesson we’re going to brew the Draught of Peace, a potion against anxiety…”

John didn’t pay much attention to the professor’s words: they seemed to float ploddingly in the background of John’s hearing, as if underwater. The voice was vague and tedious, but the beating of John’s heart was loud and clear. John felt like he was under the rush of adrenaline, being watched by his fellow students.

He turned his head and found Paul staring at him, smiling courtly. Awkwardly, John gave him a nod, acknowledging Paul’s nearness.

They had to work in pairs as the potion they were obliged to prepare was of advanced level, and the Potions Master didn’t have faith in his students to make the potion of a good quality while working alone.

When the professor had done with the basic instructions, the students stood up to get the needful ingredients, which included things like powdered porcupine quills and powdered unicorn horn.

“Thank goodness we don’t have to cut or chop anything,” Paul said, as he was reading the recipe in the book before him on the desk. “My fingertips felt like cotton wool for nearly two hours after the last lesson.”

“And mine like squashed jelly beans.” John said, inspecting the small bottles in front of him. He looked and wiggled his fingers, recollecting the odd sensation.

“All right, let’s begin. At first, we should add powdered moonshine and cook it till it turns green.”

John took the bottle and poured the necessary amount of powder into the cauldron.

It was the first time in six years they were paired together but somehow they managed to work in synchrony, mutually understating the next step of one another. Paul read the recipe, John followed Paul’s instructions; John stirred the brew, Paul told him when he should stop, and John did so immediately.

“… add exactly 7 drops of hellebore.” Paul said, outstretching his hand, and a bottle of syrup weighted on his palm. He popped open the lid and poured the liquid, with John counting the drops. “And that’s it.” Paul announced. “We’re done.”

“Are we?” John asked, astonished, bending over the cauldron. The brew had a milky-white colour, having a funny smell. John took a gander around the class and chuckled quietly. He and Paul were the first pair who’d prepared the potion, while the others were still labouring with their task. Some students looked dejected, fiercely stirring their brews with ladles, whilst the others were observing their cauldrons with downcast eyes.

“Yup, we’re ready.” Paul responded, with his eyes looking for Mr. Epstein. “Sir? Sir, we finished.”

The professor approached their table. A sceptic expression glued to his face like a deformed mask. He examined their cauldron, stiffing the brew before casting a spell on it with his wand; the potion turned bubbly and then became still again.

“Very good,” said the Potions Master in a plain tone. “So far your potion is of the best quality of today.” A hum of voices filled the classroom. Somebody moaned with despair. “20 points to Gryffindor… and Slytherin.” The professor frowned. “You both can take two small bottles of your brew.” He said, looking at John. “As a reward for your efforts.”

“Thank you, sir.” Paul said with John in unison; then they both chuckled.  

The Potions Master nodded curtly, scrutinizing the pair with a composed look, though his mouth gave a slight twitch, giving his put-on appearance away. He stepped away from their desk to check the other students’ potions.

“I’ll bring us the bottles,” John said and headed to the small cabinet in which all kinds of glass flasks were stored. As he stood, something small dropped from his back pocket of his trousers. Paul picked it up, a small wad of paper, and handed it back to John, when the latter had returned.

“Here, you lost it.”

“Oh? Aye, thanks.” John took the paper and crumbled it back into his pocket.

“Something not very important then?” Paul chuckled, tilting his head.

“You can say that,” John murmured. “A love letter from my big devotee.”

“Really?” Paul lifted an eyebrow in a teasing manner. “Can I read it?”

“Sure, why not?” John gave Paul a letter, that now was a tattered wad. He stifled a laugher as he watched Paul unfolding the letter with a repulsive expression on his face. _A neat git_ , John thought, amused.

“This girl…” John started.

“Yoko.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s an acrostic, look.” Paul moved closer to John, his shoulder touching John’s. “You, then Owe, then Kiss, and so on. Y-o-k-o.”

“Oh. I knew she had a thing for me, but somehow I’ve thought it was someone else who’d been sending me these letters.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”   

“Don’t know, really. It just seemed to me that only shy ones would send you love letters, you know. Besides, according to Harrison, she’s a rather adamant and canny young lady.” John said before he gave Paul a curious look, adding: “Do you know her?”

“Yeah. She asked me if I could see Thestrals. I said, I don’t know. Then she asked me to go and look for them with her. I kindly refused and assumed, kindly again, to bother you instead.” Paul chuckled; John raised an eyebrow. “It was a day or two after you labelled me a two-faced little liar, so I was quite annoyed with you.”

“So you're the reason why Yoko’s chasing me now? Thanks a lot.”

“You had plenty of time.” Paul huffed, crossing his arms. “You could’ve at least apologize for insulting me.”

A pin of guilty pierced through John’s heart. He should’ve apologized a long time ago, he knew that, and not only for earlier, but for all those hurtful things he’d ever said to Paul. Though John wasn’t that kind of lad who’d ask forgiveness.

“Yeah, erm… sorry, Paul. I thought you were a prick.”

“Whoa. You really know how to apologize, don’t you?”

“But it’s true! I just… argh. Sorry again.”

“Forgiven.”

John’s lips curled into a sad smile, he couldn’t help himself. Paul had pronounced it so simply, so light-heartedly that it made John doubt his own worthiness. Nevertheless, he was acting genuinely towards Paul and thus John wasn’t completely dishonest. But of course Paul didn’t mean it, John thought. He’d still been under the influence of the love potion and it was nothing but a feigned affection speaking for him and his befuddled mind.

When the lesson was over, their potion remained the best among the other pairs. 

***

“Better keep it for finals, you reckon?” John said, coming after Paul outside of the classroom. He’d forgotten that his next class was Charms with Ravenclaw students, and so John had been following Paul’s lead. “Might be a real lifesaver, this inner peace elixir.”

“Yeah, but guess what? The exams don’t really give me the jitters, you see. Like, I always know that I’ll pass, it just the mark could be somewhat worse than I might expect it to be.”

“You’re so sure of yourself?” John asked plainly, though without any hostility in his voice. 

Paul only smiled, for a moment looking silently down at his feet. “I’m aware of my strong suits.” He said as he looked up under his eyelashes, playing coy with a purpose.

 _As much as you’re aware of your looks_ , John thought.

“I’ve got Herbology now,” Paul said as no reply came from John. “Anyhow, it was fun brewing with you.”

“Yeah, I liked working with you too.” John mumbled, not daring to look at Paul just yet. “Well, maybe we'll get another chance to work together again… someday.” He shuffled his feet awkwardly. Why it had to be so embarrassing to part for their next lessons? And why it had to feel as if they weren’t in school but on a threshold, saying goodbye after the first date?  

“Yeah. It’d be nice, um…” Paul said and glanced at John. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yes,” John quickly responded, catching a glimpse of Paul’s eyes. “See you later.”

At that moment John could’ve sworn that the awkwardness became almost tangible to grasp it with the hand, as if the feelings were perceptible by touch, but even if it were so, right now the uneasiness around them would’ve crushed John with its pressure.

He blinked and found out that Paul had already gone, and now John was standing alone in the hallway next to the stained glass windows that were gleaming lightly from the sunshine falling upon them. John felt a little bit dizzy, but in a good way -- he felt dizzy with happiness.

And when he was in the South Tower, making his way up the stairs, another student in the hallway had still been standing there, not far from the stained glass. That student was immensely confused, as he’d spied, by pure accident, John speaking with Paul; the ogling look on John’s face, and the way Paul had been smiling all along. 

Oh well, Paul was a terrible actor, Ritchie had witnessed it by himself. Or maybe Paul hadn’t been acting at all, and maybe it was just a look of an unknown emotion Ritchie had never seen until now.

As well as he’d never spiked Paul’s beverage with the love potion.


	3. Chapter 3

With an exaggerated sigh, John dropped his head on his outstretched hands on the table, in the Great Hall, after the noon. He was among the students who were preparing their homework there, being surrounded by half-whispered voices and the rustling of turning pages. He had to do his task for Herbology in writing for tomorrow, comparing Snargaluff pods with… well, some other pods which he hadn’t figured out just yet.

 _Bloody Paul… why weren’t you sorted to Gryffindor? –_ the same old question had been torturing him over and over again.  _Perhaps you weren’t such a cunning, self-preserving little— No._   _Don’t even think about it. You know who’s a berk here._

John lifted his head and straightened up his back. Some students by this point had finished their homework, already leaving the hall, while John… what was his task, again? He looked around the hall, wondering if George would let him copy his homework. John had his Herbology class with Hufflepuff students so Professor H. Beery shouldn’t notice two similar works from two different Houses… Besides, how many words are there in the English language to compare two almost identical  _(or not – that still was to_   _be inquired)_ plants? And well, on top of that, John had an ace up his sleeve to lure George to cooperate with him: his guitar. Why doesn’t lend it to George and let him play a little? 

Perhaps it would have worked and George agreed, if only the Herbology Professor hadn’t been a rigorous old man, who preferred to give the Houses different tasks. Therefore, every House had different plants to compare. 

John groaned, drawing the attention among the Gryffindors around him. Colin raised an eyebrow and John made him a gesture,  _‘Piss off.’_

The potion would wear off soon, and he didn't have another chance to speak with Paul during that day. And the imaginary clock inside John’s head was relentlessly counting down the last minutes till Paul got back to normal.

John turned around and looked at the Slytherin table, his eyes searching despairingly for Paul. The boy was reading a book, propping his chin with his palm. As if having felt John’s gaze at him, Paul looked up and caught John’s eyes on him. He smiled lightly and waved his fingers. Smiling awkwardly back, John nodded and turned back around.

“Cyn?” he called the girl sitting next to him, too close to graze her with his shoulder. “What are we doing?”

Astonished, she stopped writing. Her hand froze above the paper with a pen in it. “John, we’ve been here for almost two hours, and now you’re asking me what’re we doing?”

“Yes.” John nodded, his face deadpan, with no trace of mockery.

“Um, right.” It was her who was embarrassed. “Well, we have to compare the stumps and the—”

Grinning mischievously, John reached for Cynthia’s papers and drew them with his index finger towards him.

“Just saving our time here.”

“Your time, you mean?” She pouted.

“Mmm,” John hummed, being too busy to respond reading Cynthia’s neat handwriting. Her work consisted of one and a half papers, so why it took her more than two hours to put it down? He could’ve done it in less than fifteen minutes, John decided. But wait… had she really been doing her homework during all this time or had she been daydreaming of sitting so close next to John? To think of it was flattering.

Somebody poked John’s shoulder, and Cynthia was pushed away from John as if she had been shoved aside. Furrowed, John turned his head and saw a black-haired Ravenclaw girl occupying Cynthia’s place while watching him closely. She was waiting for his reaction, and for that reason, she wasn’t uttering a word.

“Yes, darling?” John asked in a taunting voice, his eyebrows raised.

“Why didn’t you reply to my letters, John?”

Her straightforwardness made John gasped in bewilderment. He wasn’t used to it, allowing anybody, some unknown stranger, to talk to him this way, accusing him in something he didn’t want to participate at the very beginning. Her tone annoyed him, and her undue familiarity towards Cynthia made him fly into a growing rage, causing him to dislike her at the very first sight.

“What letters?” he asked coldly.

“The ones I sent you.”

John fisted his hand on his hip beneath the table. Then he took a deep breath. It was the limit of his knowledge how to calm himself down within the means at his disposal. Was he really involved in such a conversation?

“And who are you, exactly?” he gritted through his teeth. Were students from other Houses even allowed to sit at the tables outside of their own?

“My name’s Yoko,” she answered, for some reason looking pleased, as if she’d achieved something, something only known to her.

“All right, Yoko, listen carefully what I’m gonna tell you now—” John started but tailed off as something feathery and ticklish touched his cheek, and then a half-husky voice whispered in his ear:

“Can I steal you for a minute?”

It gave him an exciting shiver. John sharply moved his head, recognizing the voice immediately. It was Paul’s silky raven strands of hair from around his face that had tickled John’s skin, and now Paul squeezed his head between John and Yoko’s shoulders.

“John’s busy,” Yoko said, unamiable. “Don’t you see we’re talking?”

“John?” Paul ignored Yoko completely. “You coming?”

From the very start, the little scene had been observed with a great interest by the Gryffindors and other students who had a chance to notice it happening. John felt as Yoko gave Paul a nudge with her elbow, apparently wanting to shove Paul away and get back John’s full attention.

“Yes,” John answered vaguely, not sure if he wasn’t sleeping and it all was just an odd dream.

As he stood up, he received a confused look from Cynthia and a morose expression from Yoko on her face. Silently, John followed after Paul after he quickly grabbed his textbook and his other belongings. John didn’t ask Paul where he was taking him, nor did he try to figure it out as they walked along, with Paul in front and John right behind him.

Paul brought John to one of the Bell towers, on the very top of it, where they were alone. It was rather dusty inside, except the bell, which for a splitting second John desired to ring by its chain.

Paul came up to the windows that were glowed with the subdued light of the clouded sky. He looked outside, having still not said a thing since he’d beckoned John to follow after him. John approached Paul and, too, peeped through the window the moment Paul turned around and looked at John.

John struggled to smile, not really knowing how to defuse the tension and the moment of prolonged reticence between them. Paul didn’t smile, but slipped his hand inside his cloak, taking out a small bottle.

“Explain yourself,” Paul said as he brandished before John’s face.

John wished to fall through the ground than to try excuse himself.

“How? Did Ritchie—” he mumbled, averting his eyes.

“Yeah, he told me. Was so embarrassed, he couldn’t stop apologizing, can you believe it?”

That sounded just like Ritchie, John thought, wondering why Starkey had agreed at all if he was so reluctant to go through with it. And he also wondered who else got to know John’s failed mischief. 

“So what do you want me to say?” John said, taking an oblique look at Paul. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it? Yeah, okay Paul, I didn’t—”

“Oh, cut it short, Lennon. What’ve you wanted to do to me, huh? Make a bloody nancy boy out of me in front of everybody?”

“No!” John reddened. “It’s not tha—”

“Uh-huh. It’s not that. Okay. So what’s then?”

It was complicated; John didn’t know it himself. But it was over now with Paul, and their real acquaintance with one another hadn’t even taken place, John was assured of it.   

“So what did you want, John?!” Paul was close to shouting. “Did you—” he silenced abruptly.  _He understood_. He understood it by John’s timidness, and by John’s flushed face and his downcast eyes. It was John. John whose words and actions didn’t go along well with his feeling, though John would never admit it.

Paul dashed forward and pressed his mouth against John’s.

It wasn’t really a kiss but a chaste, childish-like brushing of one pair of lips against the other, but for John it was like an explosion of all possible senses. He suddenly felt warm inside his stiff body as he was smothered with an aura of calm excitement. John hadn’t closed his eyes, being taken by a great astonishment that seemed to be on the verge of something like consternation. Hesitantly, he tried to give his lips a little move and turn an innocent peck into a real kiss.

Paul pulled back, a flicker of bewilderment passed across his face, though it quickly disappeared, and a smirk crooked his mouth.  

“I thought as much,” he said bluntly, but to John’s ears, it sounded mocking, almost cruel, and the afterglow of the kiss felt like a well-turned punishment that hurt John enormously.   

“What exactly?” John mumbled. He couldn’t bring himself to hold Paul’s stare. 

“You find me attractive,” Paul said as he propped against the wall. “Don’t deny it. You tried to kiss me.”

That left John speechless. What game Paul was playing with him? 

“I beg your pardon?” John gasped as he was still digesting Paul’s words. He looked up at Paul. “Was it _me_ who tried to kiss  _you_ , are you sure?  _You_  kissed me, McCartney, not the other way round.”

“Really?” Paul said, lifting an eyebrow. “You could’ve pushed me, smacked me, you could’ve done anything –  _but no._ You wanted to open my mouth instead.”

That hurt even more because it was true. John knew Paul was right, and yet he wouldn’t have tried to stop Paul to kiss him if a Time-Turner had appeared right before him out of the blue to turn the hourglass back in time for less than two minutes.

“Stop being so full of yourself, Macca. You’re imagining things.” John said, for a moment averting his gaze. “You kissed me, and I returned you the favour. Was so shocked, you know, being kissed by another lad, I couldn’t collect my thoughts. Do you like boys, Macca?”

“What about you, John? Do you often spike lads’ drinks to make them love you? Like, on a regular basis, mm?”

“You little scoundrel.” John sniggered.  “If you were to kiss me again, I’d punch you without a second thought.”

“Then I’d hit you back,” Paul said, lifting his chin, the corners of his lips gave a little twitch.  “Have no doubt about that.”

John had noticed it, the way Paul suppressed something that seemed to be a smile, and it left John nonplussed. What if Paul wasn’t really angry with him and the ostensible rudeness in his tone was, in fact, a well-disguised, unreadable feeling?

“What if,” John started, taking a step closer to Paul, “it were the other way around?”

It took Paul a moment to come up with an answer. Voicelessly, he raised his hand and approached it to his face. Lowering his lashes, he grazed his lips with his thumb.  _You’re a lefty,_ a reminiscent thought passed through John’s head, being evoked by Paul’s brief but so concise gesture.

“I guess you won’t know for sure till you have a whack at it,” came a quiet reply.

They looked at each other in silence. Being on edge, John feared that he’d misinterpreted Paul’s innuendo and therefore would suffer a defeat more resounding than before. He’d never been good at understanding elusiveness, comprehending only overly broad hints that were given to him like a blow to the head. However, Paul, on the other hand, seemed to have no problem at throwing vague allusions… and getting to the bottom of them too.

John came closer to Paul and as he did so, Paul pushed himself off the wall and moved towards John until they both stopped, standing against the middle of the window, that was the only source of light in the Bell tower. The downcast sky was giving a dim lustre, coming through the glass window, brightening Paul’s raven hair, making his skin look aristocratically pale.

Paul was beautiful, and the sight of his arresting beauty gave rise to John’s inner diffidence, suffocating him with heart-ripping thoughts. Paul was drop-dead gorgeous,  _beauteous –_ not for all the world he would think John handsome. But Paul was still there, watching John closely and not trying to flee.

Tentatively, little by little, John crossed the remaining distance between them and kissed Paul on the lips. He felt Paul smiling, and then a hand buried itself into John’s hair, keeping him in place. This time Paul didn’t hesitate to part his mouth the instant he felt John thinner lips against his own. Paul embraced him with his other hand around John’s shoulders, while John’s palms found their way onto Paul’s back, fondling him through his black-green cloak.

John had never thought that a lad could kiss so tenderly. Paul’s lips were velvety soft and oh-so hot, and it made John wonder how it felt for Paul kissing him. Was he strikingly aware that he wasn’t kissing a girl? Or maybe John was belittling himself, and Paul felt as good as John did.

John moved his lips, following Paul’s lead. He was amazed how soothing and, in some way, consoling it felt to relinquish the domineering role and let somebody else take over the control. Never for a splitting second John minded Paul to be in charge of their endearment. It was a comforting revelation.

Paul deepened the kiss and it gave John a shudder running down his spine, the sensation of Paul’s warm tongue slipping inside his mouth. Paul did it somehow meekly as if testing the waters, probing if John was all right with it.

A fuzzy feeling overcame John inner senses. He opened his mouth wider and pushed his tongue past Paul’s lips, caressing him with it. Paul stiffed, then relaxed again, and his fingers clutched John’s hair tightly, pressing the nape of his neck closer to him.

They kissed erratically, eagerly, fighting for breath and impossible closeness. Having regained his confidence, John savoured Paul’s smell, sniffing his evanescent, fruity scent. He held Paul gently in his hands, afraid to clasp him firmer, given that his head had already been spinning out of breath.

_A few days ago… who would’ve believed it?_

They pulled away from each other, breaking the kiss, though still hugging. As if by an airy sign they both grinned broadly, being on the brink of hearty laughter, their foreheads touching.

“Trial and error, eh?” John said hoarsely as he cracked an amused smile.

“No,” Paul chuckled. “It’s rather hit and miss with you.”

“So…” John drawled, petting Paul’s back. “You wanna hit me?”

Paul smiled, “You wanna kiss me again?”

“Yeah,” John answered, beaming with joy. “I do.” He said and kissed Paul again.  

***

Sitting outside on the bench, Ringo wondered if there was a word for a feeling he had been experiencing but couldn’t express verbally. The feeling of being implicated into something he'd never asked for while witnessing things he couldn’t explain logically.

He had told Paul everything, at the time feeling terribly guilty for having bought John’s scheme. However, when the words of confession had escaped his mouth, not in a million years, he would have anticipated Paul’s reaction. He’d expected anger, fury or even stupefaction, but what he’d seen left Ringo speechless. There was an expression of inexplicable delight on Paul’s face, along with a sly, half-stifled smile. Had Paul been all this time licking his lips over the possibility to get involved into something, no matter what, with John? Or conceivably had Paul been so avid for having the upper hand over John’s ill-prepared shenanigans?      

Should he have told John that he had disclosed his so-called ploy to Paul? In that case, who would have an advantage?

To hell with them both, Ringo decided, being determined to let them work it out themselves. He wasn’t playing gooseberry, and when he saw the two of them walking out of the Bell tower, giggling and nudging each other, Ringo had never been so sure of his decision to leave the lovebirds alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because slow burns are painful :)


End file.
